Do you ever sit there, and stare at the floor until your eye catches something and you think, “is that a spider leg? That is TOTALLY a spider leg. Why is there a spider leg… Christ, where’s the rest of the spider!? Wait. Oh god, did I do that to the spider? Is he totally pissed at me for shearing off his leg somehow?! I’ve gotta’ find the rest of that spider. But I don’t want to! But I have to. What if he’s in my towel? Or my BED? What if he’s in my bed?! Oh god, is he on my pillow? He’s totally on my pillow, I just know it. Wait. Why is my head itchy? Oh dear god, that spider is probably in my hair. I guarantee he’s in my HAIR! I want to swat him out, but that means I have to touch him! I can’t just leave it there! It’ll make a nest and have babies, and they’ll all get born and go in my ears! Wait, what if I just mash my hand to my head and kill it that way? But then I’ll have spider in my hair! For Christ’s sake, I just wanted to pee in peace!! Why is this happening to me?! …oh wait. That’s just a blade of grass.”

Last weekend The Cheerleader I Live With and I went into the city to celebrate our anniversary. We stayed at a fancy-schmancy hotel, and ate a fancy-schmancy dinner, and got fancy-schmancy drunk. While we were at the fancy-schmancy hotel getting dressed for dinner, the very dapper Cheerleader I Live With was looking all chic in his suit, so I did what any self-respecting girl would do: I hit on him. I put on a sexy sneer, lifted one eyebrow, pointed the double finger guns at him and smoothly said, “so… come here often?” To which he unexpectedly replied, “No. But when I do, I mercilessly beat my hooker” And now you know why I love him so very, very much.


Dear everyone: Correct grammar, punctuation, and spelling is important – NASA probably won’t hire a scientist who’s lik, kewl, n’ stuf, evn if ur lik  awsme. Although… they may be more than happy to fly you to the moon. And leave you there. Nasa hates text messaging. I think.

Dear Mochas: *sings* Yooooou… light up my life… you give me hope, tooo carry oooon…

I have decided that when I turn 40 years old, I’m going to throw a birthday party and have my very own smash cake. In fact, I’m going to have a smash cake for every one of my guests, and I fully expect  want a massive cake fight to ensue. Because nothing is going to brighten up a hospital Emergency Room like a group of drunken, sugar-fueled adults with a litany of icing-to-the-eye injuries. I’m doing it for science. Because I care.

Crap. Now I have “You Light Up My Life” in my head. I blame mochas.

One more thing… Dear Cancer: FUCK. YOU. That’s right, I said it. FUCK. YOU. You’re always bullying around and being a dick to super awesome people, so I wanted you to know that I hate you, and I think you’re fat, ugly, and dumb. You also can’t drive, your cooking sucks, and NO ONE likes your home brew wine, dude. Seriously, it tastes like ass. Also, you have terrible taste in shoes, you suck at playing guitar, your paintings are horrible, your homemade scrapbooks look awful, and your house is really ugly. Your tattoos are dumb, you need to lose a few pounds, your taste in music is laughable, and I hate the vanity license plate on your car. So here’s the deal, yo – leave Shelley alone, you dirtbag ass-wipe. I mean it. Get the hell out. Clear out, go, vamoose, LEAVE. Go play in traffic, you needless, disgusting, hateful wang-canker. That’s right. WANG-CANKER. That’s you. Shut up, Cancer! Jerk.

Enjoy your weekend, everyone (except cancer – I want you to have a really bad weekend, you dick), and Happy Friday!!